Sunday, February 28, 2010
"Working the crease" and other things that sound dirty but really aren't
So I went to a hockey game this weekend.
College hockey, to be exact.
The Mister's family has had season tickets pretty much since the beginning of time. I'm fairly certain that the VonPartypants men burst from the womb wearing Bulldogs sweatshirts and shouting "C'mon! Work that puck!" or...something "hockey-esque" like that. Every year for christmas, in an attempt to finally get me to join the ranks, I get my own Bulldogs sweatshirt, hat, colostomy bag, t-shirt, or (in this year's case) knee-high socks that I could (in theory anyways) wear to actually go and witness the glory that is College hockey. Even Bubs got a sweatshirt this year- he sure looks cute in it, but no matter how much I try and coach him I don't think he's ever going to be able to hold a hockey stick without thumbs. Plus, "working the crease" has a completely different meaning for him, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with sports.
The funny thing is, my girl Waffle and I used to go to tons of Bulldog games when we were in 8th-9th grade. Her family had season tickets, but only two. It was a good few seasons for the 'Dogs, so she and I usually ended up getting standing-room only tickets, which we loved. "Standing Room" meant that we weren't obligated to hang out with her parents (especially her Dad, who still to this day seems to really enjoy the freedom and stretchyness of high-watered polyester pants), and we could roam the arena freely in search of awkward teenage boys that we could shamelessly flirt with over chocolate malt cups and nachos.
This love affair with hockey ended about the same time that we discovered our love of punk rock/skater boys and ended our pursuit of sporty/"normal" boys.
I haven't been to a game in years- usually I have obligations of my own if I'm in Duluth on a Friday or Saturday night (read: anything instead of hockey), but for whatever reason this weekend I not only willingly agreed to go, but I was actually looking forward to it.
College Hockey is a big deal in Duluth- most of the season ticket-holders have been going since birth- and the whole thing kind of feels like a really big family reunion. Everybody knows everyone else- if not by name, then by things like "the guy who tucks his team jersey into his dad jeans with bad feathered hair" or "that obnoxious woman who yells 'put it in the net!' over and over and OVER".
The smell of chili dogs and popcorn wafts through the air, and kids get excited to see the zamboni during the period breaks. If you can tune out the section of "student fans" shouting chants that they should be ashamed of (seriously- there are kids there and it's totally unsportsman-like) using words like "asshole" "fuck" and "faggot", the whole thing would have a old-timey, Norman Rockwellish feel to it. Unfortunately, tuning out those assholes (yes, it's appropriate here- kids don't read this and they ARE assholes- the students, not kids, you know what I mean) is nearly impossible. They seriously suck.
But, other than that it was a good time for me overall. I like watching hockey for the most part- it's fast-paced, fairly easy to understand the rules, and the fact that there is always potential for mayhem, missing teeth, and bloodshed makes it a must-see in my book.
So I went, it was fun, I actually watched the game. And no- I didn't wear a team sweatshirt. Or socks. Or a hat. I'm pretty sure that I'm not ready for that level of commitment yet.
But...I think I might go again. Someday.
Stranger things have happened, right?